Crappily Ever After (16 page)

Authors: Louise Burness

‘Gran tells me you work with children and you’re not happy there. You should be doing something creative. You get the love of that from her.’

My mind drifts back to being seven-years-old in Gran’s kitchen; Mary and me up to our elbows in dough. The comforting warmth of the room and the smell of a Sunday roast wafts from the oven. We were in charge of the baking.

‘Gran says you have had bad luck in the past with men.’ I stifle a giggle at the understatement. ‘Very bad luck,’ frowns Brenda. I can imagine Gran filling in the details as Brenda raises her eyebrows and looks at me. ‘What you need to do, Lucy, is ask the Universe.’ She explains further, on noticing my puzzled expression.

‘Basically, what Gran is saying is that all that we want from life is there for the taking. You simply have to ask. Visualise the kind of man you want to meet, write it down even. The same with the kind of job you want. But only use positives. Don’t say: “I don’t want another man who will be unfaithful.” Instead, say: “I want to attract a man who will be faithful to me.” Do you understand?’ Brenda smiles kindly.

‘Yes,’ I say. ‘Kind of like divine ordering?’

‘Exactly,’ Brenda laughs softly, closing her eyes again. She definitely isn‘t trying to read my expressions. Only glancing at me occasionally to put across a point. She is impressing me, in spite of my belief that it’s all a crock.

‘You worry about your family too much,’ Brenda continues. ‘Mum’s health in particular, but she is fine. Stress is her biggest enemy.’ I nod in silent agreement. Mum lives on her nerves. Her Health and Safety job only shows her how the most obscure things can happen – making her worry unnecessarily more about us – on top of all the more likely hazards.

‘Your sister’s relationship will break up soon, but it will be a Godsend to her. He annoys her more than anything and does nothing around the house. Wait, he is fond of the vacuum cleaner, so it’s obviously not all housework he has an aversion to.’

I burst out laughing at Gran’s joke, startling Brenda out of her trance.

‘I’m sorry,’ I giggle. ‘That has more relevance than you’ll ever know.’

‘Gran wants to take you overseas,’ continues Brenda. ‘I see a coastline with palms and good friends surrounding you. But it’s more than a holiday, and more in reach of your grasp than you think. It’s a long held dream for you.’

Gran continues to tell me, via Brenda, that I’m too skinny (despite going back up to the wrong side of a size 12!). It’s the belly that keeps the back up! Brenda laughs at this, and quite possibly it’s the one thing that convinces me most. It is word for word exactly what Gran used to say to us. I should have a proper breakfast, like porridge. I think back to this morning’s first meal of the day. Leftover pizza and a can of Irn Bru. OK, point taken. I should eat more fruit. I should drink less wine, but she’s glad I’ve stopped smoking. I am very happy with my reading and thank Brenda profusely. As I walk to the door of the church, Brenda calls out to me.

‘Lucy, there’s an elderly man walking next to you. He is blowing you a kiss and saying thank you. It’s all he wants to say.’

‘Thanks Brenda,’ I smile, ‘that’ll be Harry.’

I head outside to wait for Becky. The frosty blue daylight is sharp after the dark warmth of the church. Becky skips out smiling.

‘Wine?’ she asks.

‘Yes!’ I reply, pausing momentarily to look up at the sky. ‘Sorry, Gran,’ I smile cheekily. ‘Come on Harry, let’s hit the pub.’ Becky throws me a strange look.

Becky was happy with her reading too. She will meet a man soon who will be very significant in her future. One of her friends will introduce them.

‘I already know everyone that you know,’ she says dismissively. ‘So, it must be another friend.’ Her Grandfather was more general in what he said, just things about everyday life and family. She would be beginning a new job in the next few months, though she was fine where she was and didn’t see that happening.

‘Did you give my name when you booked the reading?’ I ask Becky.

‘No, just mine, why?’

‘She knew it was Lucy, that’s all,’ I reply.

The next night is Hogmanay. Being a Scot, I refuse to call it New Year’s Eve just because I live in England. Becky and I plan to head down the Frog with some friends. We are having a few warm-up drinks at home and watching
Breakfast at Tiffany’s
with a huge bag of tortilla chips, when my phone rings.

‘Hi Lucy, It’s Mike. From the train?’

‘Hello, Mike from the train. How was your Christmas?’ I ask.

‘Home was great. I now have another pile of useless things I will never use but, hey, I believe it’s the thought that counts.’

‘Guess I got the share of good presents this year,’ I laugh. ‘So what are you up to for Hogmanay?’

‘Well, there’s the thing, bugger all. What are you doing?’

‘Heading to the Frog and Bucket just off City Road. Bit of a pain to get to from Chiswick, but you’re welcome to come along and crash at ours if you like.’

‘Cool, see you there. I’m leaving now.’

‘Oooh, who’s Mi-iiike?’ Becky asks snidely.

‘Nobody that you or I are interested in,’ I say. ‘He has a girlfriend and she’s going to fix my Denis Healey’s.’

Becky gives me a ‘whatever’ look and goes back to Audrey Hepburn, sobbing and searching for Cat. I head off to change and stop as I notice a notepad sticking out from under my bed. Why not? It can’t hurt.

List of qualities I want in a man:

1) Kind and generous, but not a pushover!

2) Minimal baggage. Def no kids. I ain’t spending my weekdays AND weekends in a park.

3) No drug or alcohol dependency problems, or tortured poets.

4) Fun-loving, faithful and someone with direction and purpose in life.

5) Reasonable intelligence!

I add the last part as I remember, with frustration, yet another ex boyfriend. One particularly hot summer we were out for a pub lunch. I asked if he wanted to eat
al fresco
? He informed me he didn’t like pasta. Same guy asked me to arrange a dinner party for his boss and his wife. I called him at work and asked if he’d pick up some canapés. I didn’t think I’d bought enough. He arrived home and plonked three tins on the counter.

‘What’s this?’ I asked in confusion.

‘A can of peas, like you asked for. Only you didn’t say if you wanted garden, processed or mushy. So I bought one of each.’

Enough said.

I finish my list and sign it with a flourish. Oh, bollocks! I was supposed to write it all in positives. Well, I’ve no time left – I’ll do it tomorrow. Maybe casting on the first day of the year will bring good fortune? Or should I cast my wish properly on the last day of the year? Out with the old and in with the new? My hand hovers over the pen.

‘This is
your
doing, Granddad!’ I say to the ceiling. He has made me unnecessarily superstitious. As the bells chimed in New Year, he would open the back door to let the old year out and the open the front door to let the new one in. He would then stand guard out front to make sure the First Foot (first visitor after midnight) was a tall, dark male and carried a gift. Traditionally, that’s a lump of coal. But a packet of custard creams would do.

I’ll never forget the year that Mary, bursting for a wee, had sprinted from the Steeple, our gathering point in Arbroath. A place where you snog so many people that you’re guaranteed a Happy New Year cold sore from at least one. Granddad had refused her entry, on the grounds of being a girl, ginger and coal/biscuit-less. He left her diddling about on the spot for twenty minutes ‘til my Uncle Jim turned up and was granted entry. Mary was furious.

‘You happy now?’ she aimed a dirty look at Granddad, ‘You made me piss my pants for the first time since I was five.’

Gran intervened with a plate of pickled onions and cheese and pineapple on sticks. Mary took one grudgingly. Gran took it back and removes the cocktail stick, before plonking the lot back in Mary’s hand.

‘No way to start the New Year, with your Granda’s eyeball on the end of that.’

Hogmanay always makes me nostalgic about my family. I’ve now been sat on the bed pondering for twenty minutes and haven’t even started to get ready.

‘Lucy, we’re going,’ yelled Becky from the top of the stairs, wrenching me from my reverie.

Decision on ‘the list’ has been made for me. I’ll have to leave it for now. I change clothes quickly, slick on a layer of lip-gloss and tousle up my hair.

‘Just finishing up,’ I shout. I hear a big sigh in response. Patience isn’t one of Becky’s strong points. I put on my gloves and hat and shrug on my coat. We arrive at the Frog fifteen minutes and forty frozen fingers and toes later.

We head into the warmth and noise of the pub. It’s bursting at the seams with happy revellers. Many drunk already. I look around for Mike and Sam, then realise I wouldn’t know Sam if she fell in my soup. I spot Mike lurking uncomfortably at the bar and tap him on the shoulder. He envelops me in a bear hug and says how good it is to see me again.

‘This is Becky,’ I announce. Mike smiles broadly, as does Becky.

‘Come to Mama!’ she mutters. I dig her in the ribs.

I look at Mike for a moment, viewing him through Becky’s eyes. He is good looking. Guess I was too stressed out from work to notice before. He has overgrown dark brown hair that has a tendency to stick up in tufts. He looks very masculine, strong jaw line, wide shoulders and dark brown eyes you could melt into.

‘So, where’s Sam?’ I enquire pointedly for Becky’s benefit, and look around.

‘Bitch dumped me and moved out before I even got back,’ he shakes his head in wonder. ‘Think her family indoctrinated her while she was home. She’s gone back to Hampshire – to her ex.’ Another forty watts is added to Becky’s smile.

‘Sorry about your eyebrows,’ mumbles Mike. I shrug and shake my head sympathetically.

An hour into the evening, Becky and Mike are smitten kittens. Staring too long at each other and laughing a little too hard at anything the other says. Becky glances over at me and I mimic sticking my fingers down my throat and gagging. I smile and leave them to it. The others have arrived now and I’m too busy catching up with Em, Amy, Jill and their men of the moment. We’re dancing around near the bar when some idiot whacks into me, spilling my drink.

‘Oi! You pillock!’ I shout.

‘Sorry,’ he smarms over me, attempting to wipe wine from my front.

‘Touch me again and you’re a dead man walking,’ I inform him, turning away.

‘Apologies for my mate,’ smiles a friendly-looking guy.

‘Is he always such a twat?’ I ask him.

‘Nah. Well… yes, actually,’ he laughs.

‘Lucy Ramsey,’ I say, holding out my hand.

‘Nick Bailey,’ he replies, imitating my formality.

‘You’re shitting me, yeah?’ I laugh.

‘No,’ Nick shakes his head in confusion.

‘Bailey. Your surname is Bailey?’

‘Yes,’ he says slowly, ‘and yours is Ramsey I believe.’